wrap-around mask that covered her face down to her top lip, thefrothof red hair bunched on top: custom genetics for sure. The shoes, the gloves,everything exactly the same shade of yellow. Everything dripped money. A littleprincess, banker’s daughterin ain a city owned by them.

Ihad hardly any clothes that could be said to match except for two oversized shoes.Attwelveyears old I wasskinny, butin actuality

a fat boy living in a ravenous body. Iwas hungry every moment of every day. I fought my siblings for scraps, lied, andstole from my own mother. I justified it all without question. There’s no highermorality than hunger.

At least I wasn’t a lid-kid anymore. Gifta’s mask was a very expensive model, but itwas uncomfortable to wear anything strapped around your face all day. I wonderedif she could even use the power of all that camera and virtual

reality

technology thather parents had bought. She probably just used itfor school

and entertainment. Nodoubt the sniffers on themask

were hard at

work watching for pathogen signatures,with all the potential germ-bags milling about.

Iwas

proud thattwo weeks earlier I’d had my eyes taken out, and didn’t need amask anymore.With my optical orbsI could do all the cool tricks that were possiblewith cameras and electronics piping straight to my optic nerves. I could see in thedark and do a lizard—pointing the optics in different directions for almost 180degrees of view.The optical orbs I got were hand-me-downs from my brother, whohad died of the

mySARS variant that swept through the city the year before.

I wasproud towear

them, but they werean old model. The irises were thehue of

freshrust, complimentingmy mocha skin and black hair.Gifta’shairwasthe color of myeyes,which seemed tosteal even that small bit of specialness from me.

Students from all over the city had been assembled for a fair in the center plaza tosee

farm animals

up close. Even more than the animals, the press of so many otherhuman beings was an experience.It’s awkward to meet in real-real when most3

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

interactions are virtualfor school children, who stay at home and participatethrough their mask or optical orbs. The physical proximity

of strangers is unsettling,especially

the weird feeling that you have to pay attention to someone just becausethey share space with you. That’s why they had

occasionalsocial eventsin real-real,despite therisk

of infection, to get us used to the idea

before we became adults.

A pair of dogs gave an exhibitioninmatingthat drew attention.They

certainly didn’thave any problem with real-real contact. When a third dog sniffed around trying toincite a canineménage à trois,it caused great excitement.Thevideo of the scene

onthe public record

recorded

my voiceloudly

comparingGifta

to the bitch in themiddle of the dog orgy, noting accurately that its fur could be used as a replacementforhers

when

it fell out.

Probably when she turned twenty.

I know she cried, because I saw her slip a finger under the edge of her mask to wipe

away the moisture. It made me feel superior. So what if she had the best genes andelectronics?Iwas proud of myself.

My brother had picked up a highly lethal mySARS variation when he was fifteen. Thevirus multiplied inside him unnoticed, doubling, doubling, doubling again until hisown natural immune system killed him to suppress the virus. By the time his feverspiked, his lungs had already stopped working. “I don’t feel good” was the last thinghe said before coughing up a few drops of blood and dying at dinner.

I broke a lock to get into our sickroom and held his hand until it turned cold and stiff.Mother screamed when she saw me there. I didn’t even have gloves on. I still hadeyes then, and could cry.That was the last time I ever did.

A lot of children in our neighborhood died during that mySARS wave. My motherlocked me in my room for thirty-four days to keep me safe. My ancient mask hardlyfunctioned

anditchedmy face, so school was all the virtual

interaction I couldtolerate. During the first weekof confinement

I thought I would go insane. Whatsaved me was a discussion groupon

A New Discourse on Method,a book onphilosophy and logic. Instead of seeking escape in a virtual world of cartoon spritesand mindless entertainment like myclassmates, I began to find order in the rules ofexistence. It was terribly hard for me to read and understand, but I stuck with it. Icreated an ID on the forum and asked my stupid questions. After a while thequestions weren’t as dumb. I began to have a

reputation for finding irony andparadox

and contradiction. For the first time,I saw the potential for life to makesense.

4

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

While Giftagot the best private education available in the city,I made do withthetax-supported system. But I had already noticed that ambition matters more thaninstruction, andhad taken

matters into my own hands by the time Imet her.Itaught myself calculus so I could learn classical physics

and

know how thingsworked.

The rules of math and motion were sensible to me, even beautiful. I beganto spend more time scaffolding my mind with theory and less on official school work,butafter Farm Day in the cityI kept an orb out for news on Gifta. It was like touchinga sore.

WhenGifta

got herownnew optics at thirteen, her parents threw aFirst Lookpartyfor her.It would reveal her new orbs and her unmasked face in society, the first stepto becoming an adult.I wasn’t invited, of course, but I found some videoone of herfriends uploaded.

Gifta looks at us through a screen door. Shadow covers most of her face, buta slash of sunlight penetrates the dark grid of the wire to illuminate thecurves

of her lips. The stark contrast accents hersmile, wide and perfect, agrin

for trusted friends. She pushes open the door, and steps into the fullglare of the sun, dressed in yellow again, but a knee-length dress this time,with polished rounded shoes that looked like the shells of beetles. But it isher face that draws attention.

Her hair has growninto tresses that wind

and pile into an elegant spire. Herpaleexposedface invites a search for freckles, in vain. Her nose is pert,between cute and classic, but not yet fully developed. She shows the promiseof beauty, but it’s emerging here and there unevenly. Her ears look too large

at this age, but it’s her eyes that quickly become the center of attention.She’s chosenbrilliantgreenJune-bugirises

issetlower thantheleft,and sunk deeper under her brow.Closer inspection shows that theyhave shaved the bone on one side and filled it on the other to try to repairthe biological defect, but the slant is impossible to ignore.

It’s not clear who’s recording the video, but instant commentary scrolls upone side of the frame. “0xGD! Look at her eyes!” “DamntheDawkins, she’scrooked!”Emotional tags

“What do you think of my orbs?” Gifta wants to know, looking straight at usfrom a few feet away.

“Great color, Gift. The green really looks good with your hair,” says theowner of the orbs doing the recording. It’s a female voice.

Gifta does a little twirl that makes her dress spin out.

“Whatdoyou

think?” she asks, turning to the left, speaking to someone outof frame.

“Lovely,” comes the reply, but the laugh at the end isn’t kind. “Just vorkinglovely.”

Despite all the money spent on it, some combination of genetics had short-circuited,or mutatedin situ.

Or somegene jocky

vorked up.

I laughed when I sawthe defect,froze the video, and tried to make sense of it. Then I laughed harder when I saw theconversation. It wasn’t just me—she really had turned out warped. It was too goodto be true.

I spent an evening learning how to manipulate images, and created a side-by-sidecomparison. On the left was an adjusted version of Gifta’s face, perfectlyproportional and beautiful. On the right was her real face. I wrote a note on it: “Thisis what you would have looked like if you weren’t a freak” and sent it to her, copyingit widely

to friends and classmates.

Ibegan to

feel a tangible grasp of fate, that theNewtonianscales could be tilted outof balance, that my poor beginnings didn’t have to define me. And luck played arole, granting me a wonderful boon.

WhereasGifta

had come out of the oven half-baked, my own “whatever you got”genes had shown the hardiness of survivorship at the bottom. Whereas she, rich andpampered, was awarped

impeccable skin. My teeth were straightandhealthy, and when my real voice emerged from its cradle,itwas deep andcommanding. By the time I turned twenty I wasturning heads.

At about that age, one has to make ahard decision. It’s thenthat the body is

deemed mature enough to be augmented with anupgradedactive immune system.This includes a complete spleen replacement, some glandsswapped out

or modified,and implants in one’s bone marrow. From this platform, newviruses

can bedetected and uploaded, and new pathogen signatures can be downloaded and putin place beforea

real physical threat arrives.

There are several bio-companies that make this oozware, but they are incutthroat

competition with one another, andhave

safeguards against mixing different brandsin the same body. Because of the investment in money andflesh, once you choose abio-brand, you’re locked in for life.Later on when you need synthetic blood or a newmajor organ, you can’t go shopping around between producers. Everything has tomatch the immune system you bought when you were twenty.

The best brandwas

TaxoGen. Their products kept people alive, despite the swirlingmadness of human-created viruses that changed constantly. Their software was thebest, the organic synthesizers second to none, and they always seemed to have ajump on the next threat before it appeared.

There were whispers that the reason forthis was that a shadowy branch of TaxoGen wasproducing

tactical

pathogens

to killoff the competition.

Maybe theirownmarketing department spread that rumor,becauseeverybody

bought TaxoGen if they could afford it.

Of course, I couldn’t afford it. I was doing okay, working with my hands to fixmechanical and electrical systems. My body was leanfrom the activity, and I was fit.My mind was constantly engaged in solving technical problems. But I wasn’t makingmuch money. Nor could my parents afford to help me out much.

It burned me up inside, stoking the hatredI’d nursed for two decades, the

knowledge that despite the clawing progress I was making, this decision would markmy low origins for life.

At the bottom of everyone’s list for oozware was

WelScan. It

was

the cheapest for areason. Everything is second rate, and the service terrible. But when I added up thecost of ownership, including data transport fees, licensing, annual inspection,upgrade path, and 24/7 support, I just couldn’t get past WelScan’s price point.If Iupgraded

to FrisamoBio, I’d have to go back to being hungry all the time. The fat boy7

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

in me at twelve had turned into a lean young man’s body, but

I never lost theappetite.

So WelScan it was. I

retained

a fantasy that someday, when I got rich, I’d do acomplete swap out for a platinum TaxoGen contract. Everything top-shelf.

That’s thelie

I told myself to keep the injustice

from burning out my mind.

At twenty-two

I found a better-paying job fixing elevators and their support systems.I was good at it, andI studied

atnight to learn

engineering. The job took me all overthe city, and it was in one of the tall buildings uptown that fate’s

fling

with mecameto full term.

WhenGifta

stepped into the otherwise-empty elevator with me, I knew her evenwithout the heads-up displayin my orbstelling me. She had taken to wearingretroglasses

as an accessory—those primitive masks that relied on dumb optics andhooked around your ears to rest on your nose. It was an ineffective attempt to hideher asymmetry, and if anything, accentuated it by giving the tilt

of her orb sockets

aframe for comparison. She limped when she stepped aboard, and I figured that ithadn’t been long since theyhadupgraded her immune system.Carving into

thebones leaves you hurting for a while.She had gotten TaxoGen for sure, silvergradeat least.

At twenty years old, she hadbecome

a fine-looking young woman. Like mostchildren of the wealthy, she ate more than was good for her, but herpaleskin andredhair practically glowed with health.She was dressed for business this time, grayand white and black, top to bottom.

Our optics met straight on, and she lingered. Of course she did. Practically everywoman I met took her time soaking up my angles.I gave my quirky smile andprofiled a few degrees to show off.I

was delighted by the meeting, and

it occurredto me to toy with her.

“I know you,” Isaid.

She licked herprettylips and lookedinanother direction. The elevator whirred, andI ignored the diagnostics I was supposed to bewatching.

“I sent youa picture

after your First Look

party,” I tried.“Do you remember?”

8

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

Gifta

stared

at her expensive shoes and tried to figure out what to do with herhands.

Isighed loudly and shook my head, pretending.

“I was avorking

jerk

to you. Iknow there’s no way I could make itright, but I reallyam sorry

for that stupid prank. My brother died,and I just…went to a dark place fora while.”

She still wouldn’t look at me. She sagged against the wall, favoring a leg.

“Just get your new oozware?” I asked.

That

got a response. Acurt

nod.

Her gaze sallied out to meet mine before quicklysliding away. She seemed vulnerable, hurt even.

Iactuallygot down on my knees and took one of her gloved hands between mine. IfI hadtouched

her bare skin, they would have charged me with an expensiveadjustment at the very least. But a glove is just a glove. Her hand was limp inside it.

“Iknow

I

must have

hurt you,Gifta. All I can do is ask

your forgiveness.”

The fakesincerity waslikehoney.

It won me a fractional smile.

She got off the elevator without speaking to me, leavingonlythe smoky scent of herperfume as a goodbye.

I sent her a message the next day but didn’t really expect a response. Nor did I getone. It was with some satisfaction that I realized I really must have hurt her with theminor humiliations I had inflicted on her

all those years ago. It was another sign thatfull bellies and fancy clothes just served to conceal the weakness of spirit of themonied few.

I decided to pursue her.

9

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

This little

side

project withGifta

added spice

to my life. I worked hard at my job,seeking out the most difficult problems to solve. Istudied all the time. Ilearned

howto think about systems from different angles. A circuit could be a graph or a matrix, aset of complexvariables

or differential equations or a Laplace transform. Sometimesa problem was hard to solve from one point of view but easy from another. Itbecame a game to me to find the trick—the most elegant solution. It drove myboss

mad that I would spend time trying to find asecond

way to fix some

breakdown

after it was already thoroughlyrepaired.But that was how I pressed myanalyticalskills

to higher standards.

During this timeI sent little notes that might find their way intoGifta’s

social circle,but nothingpersonal. Just to remind her that I existed.These were like pebblesdropped into a pond

to watch

the ripples. In this way I found out two importantthings to know if I was ever to completely crush her spirit.

I discovered that she hadan active virtual social life. And I found out she had apersonal PDA. These computer personalities were so expensive to operate that Icouldn’t believe at first that anyone, even a rich banker, would throw away a fortuneevery month just so his daughter could havean artificial intelligence

to…to what?Order her breakfast? Help shop for shoes? If I hadone

looking over my shoulderwhen I worked, I could solve a lot of problems more quickly. ButGifta?

Then I realized my error. I still thought of her as a child. Her performance in theelevator had done nothing to dissuade me of the impression. But she surely hadbecome an adult, or what passes for an adult in her rarified circles,wheremoneyand servants and PDAs solved

all the hard problems in life. This was bias on my part,

and it wouldcloud my mind. I resolved to not make the same mistake again.

Neither was I the same person. At twelve my hatredwas the edge on a sword ofreason, but it was a child’s weapon, unbalanced and unwieldy. The years hadtempered my mind.

Workingthrough

A NewDiscourse on

Method

had forgedmental tools and weapons of precision and acuity:

Reason isfairly

divided among men.Therefore all acts are equal.

The wealthy had no more power to act from within themselves than I did. I had thisjustification sealed in my marrow, more permanent than the WelSec fabricators thatchurned out lymphocytes. I hated Gifta because of the unquestioned assumptionthatherreason andher

acts were accepted as superior to mine. Itwas a burning lie,an outrage.

10

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

My anger

was no longer a child’s passion, but a logical deduction.Gifta was not asymbol or a scapegoat, but a traced life parallel to mine that demonstrated the liesthat separated our

fates. I bound my will to the hatred of that spilt truth. It was anunfairness so wretched that my blood seeped from the twisted logic of it, running down mychest froma

vibrating needle

late one night. Thetattooedink stained my skin in line ofcharacters, each one bold, assembling tobecome

MY REASON. MY ACTS.

Yes,Gifta

was a real person. By thought and deed I would resolve my hatred of thereallies she embodied. The happy accident of her twisted birth would be the key. Iwould bring her to the mirror and make her look, not at herself, but through herself.Into thedark

despair

of overwhelming unfairness

I knew from birth.

I would beelevated by the act.The

symmetry was a tautological joy.

In my pursuit,I spentfar too much

moneyin arranging to be

admitted to

virtualevents thatGifta

might attend.I don’t really like virtual-real.The visuals streamstraight to the optical orbs, of course, butI don’t have the gear

to seem authentic

in-world: the haptics and sensors andsoftware

are prohibitively expensive, and I alsocouldn’t affordto payfora

virtual wardrobe.The idea of spending my money onclothes that don’t really exist was too much to bear.So I looked like an off-the-shelfavatarthat may as well have had DEMO written across it,andIfelt stupid trying tochat upother avatars

that cost more than I made in a year. Theylaughed

at me.

Itwas a disaster that left me poorer and angrier.

But it succeeded in the end, becauseshortly after this fiasco,

Gifta

messaged me with marked-up images taken from thevirtual outing. They were mocking in a way, but mostly silly. And there was a happyface drawn on the last one.

I waited a day and messaged her back.

“DearestGifta, your artwork was amusing. Did I really look that ridiculous?”Not ahint of a hook dangling yet, just the merest offlirts. It wouldn’t do to spookmy

prey.

This exchange turned into a casual banter that assumed a certain regularity

andincreasing familiarity. I found that my pulse jumped when my inbox chimed that shehad written

some new banal update about her life.It

was not a romantic thrill thattickled my nerves. It was the anticipation of a

stalking.

By thenI was a

connoisseur of romance. Women young and old who saw me gaveme invitations that spanned a spectrum of lust. In this age of constant biological11

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

threat,

any physical contact was dangerous. This had expanded in the public mind,especially the adolescent mind,sothat a first kiss was something extraordinarilyprecious, almost mythical.I had kissed scores of women, and a lot more beyondkissing.

It’s difficult to conceal physical contact from the watching eyes of the publicsurveillance cameras and the video streaming from masks and optical orbs. Butthere are a few cracks here and there that one can slip into to be undisturbed. Imade a science of it.

Still, these liaisons were unsatisfying. After the novelty woreoff, Ibegan to lose interest in the simple matter of conquest, which was too easy,and always risky.There was nothing there to feed my mind.The ability to instigatepowerful emotions was just another tool to be used rationally.

When the messages fromGifta

became frequent, I cut off these side adventuresaltogether. Theresultinghurt calls and messages littered my communications for awhile, and then tailed off

into mournful silence. It felt

good to be able to focus.

One evening while I lay on my bed in my small apartment, Giftasent me the addressto avirtual woodland scene, and we met in the made-up world.

I woremy basicavatar, and she appeared as a wood nymph with pointed ears and a flawless face,gauzy wings fluttering behind her. Her control was amazing, and it told me that shespent most of her time avoiding real-real.

By comparison, my

own

avatarcontrol was a cartoonish

jerky comedy.As before,Ilacked the skill, equipment, and software to pull it off convincingly. But she didn’tdraw attention to it. I managed to clumsily follow her around as she showed me herworld.

I realized that this really was her world.Why live in a crookedrealworld, whenperfect ones can

be made to specification?

The scene was a peaceful forest at thefirst sign

of spring. Thick trunks of a bygoneage stood as pillars against a rolling landscape. There

“How did you know?” Her eyes lifted in surprise. There were no optical orbs hereanymore than there were errant genes. The eyelids on her avatar were stained thecolor of crushed grass. The eyes themselves were black on white, too large, andpiercing. Butthe twist ofa

smile softened her face.

“I make it all from nothing,” she said, holding out her arms to embrace this luxuriousfantasy.

Shemadethis?I suddenly doubted myself. I crushedthe thought, and my handsreflexively went to my chest where my salvation was etched

Ever?” her eyes grew round and huge. The sun behind her dripped into afading stain on the sky, and light fadedto monochromegloom.

I had never meant to be honest with her, not for

a fraction of a thought. But the

truth lay there like acorpse

awaiting dissection.

I terminated the connection. The sea and the nymph vanished, and I was greetedback to real-realby

the sight of filthy walls and two beetles mating on a table. Forjust a moment I could see how someone couldshun this profanity

and live a wholelife in the pleasure of pixels and fantasy.

Gifta messaged me some sympathetic bitshit, but I ignored it. I was in no state to beseductive or deceitful, and certainly notto bethe recipient of pity.

I lost myself in circuit theory for a while, admiring the beauty of spanning trees andtheir delicate connection tomatrixeigenvalues. I discovered a subtle but powerfultransformation that I could not find in any reference. I wondered if I hadproved anew theorem.

My confidence seeped back.

It was natural that being with Gifta, even virtually, would directly challenge myemotional state. I had been prepared to deal with superficial romance, but Gifta wasunlike other females I had encountered. She was sophisticated.

It had neveroccurred tome that I might be challenged by hermind. I had expected a13

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

straightforward romantic conquest--the game that had become so easy for me--which would allow me tobreak her heart and declare victory.

But the brief experience with Gifta in her world had shown

me that my owndefenses were inadequate. My private feelings were locked behind unassailablewalls of resentment. There was no possibility she could make me forget the years ofdeprivation and loss. But I had arrogantly assumed that my reason would also besuperior, that she would have acquired the learned disability of the very rich: theirpropensity to trivial pursuits and shallowness of soul.

Doubts crowded around like the afternoon vultures that searched forcarrion

in thestreets.

Gifta

has a mind with edges as sharp as my own. Could I have done what she did?

I began to realize that rationality is a ficklemaster. It twists and turns unexpectedly.This was supposed to be my strength, this radar for irony and contradiction. But Isawthat it camewith hidden barb. Being a logician seemed like being a snakecharmer. One lapse in judgment or concentration could lead to a poisonousoutcome.

Still, a decade of devotionto logiccould not easilybeundone. The image of myselfas a purely emotional hate-driven man who abandoned reason was repugnant.There was no way but forward. And as I began to relax, toying with my graphs andequations, my confidenceincreased again.

I lifted my shirt and traced the words across my chest. They were still true, and withthem thelogical ground under my feet:

I think, therefore I hate.

The next day, I got a longer message from Gifta than before.

She chattered on forseveral paragraphs about her friends and mundane events, as if nothingunusualhadhappened between us. But I read these ephemera more carefully now. It seemedthat this

could be constructed so as to veil intelligence that didn’t want to revealitself.

I struggled,

on the one hand to find firm evidence

of deceit, and on the otherarguing

with myself that this was merely residual doubt from the night before.

Thelast part of

her message became personal.

14

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

"I'm

becoming attached to our conversations," she wrote. "Once upon a time youmade it clear that you thought me hideous. I wonder if that’s still true. I will beriding the elevator again

in two days. It would be better to be absent than unsure ofyour answer.”

The words and emotional tags on this last showed sophistication. Normal emotagslike #happy and #interested are overused by most people. Gifta avoided those. Inplace she had included an emotaglogic

with a conditional if-then construction. Iunderstood it immediately. This meta-message made the intent ofthe proposedrendezvous clear.

if(#disappointment) then (#peace

#eventually)

BUT

if (#betrayal) then (#heartbreak

#unforgiven)

This was as clear as it could be, and it told plainly that I could achieve my aim. Idoubt that she had any idea how thorough my betrayal would be. Toallow her tobelieve I loved her, perhaps to kiss, and then to unmask my utter contemptfor herandseason the insult with

disgustat

her warped appearance.

But her

recipe did not reassure me. What sort of vulnerable woman would write herfears out like a computer program? Shouldn’t she be hoping against hope, bouncingbetween joy and fear? That’s what I had come to expect. Anyone as intelligent as Isuspected Gifta to be would know that honesty in romance is the same as weakness,and thatpredicting

heartbreak makes it inevitable.

My mindfocused on the prospect. I had the feeling of agrand conclusion in

logic,where one draws a line under the rows of premises

and sums the significance. Forher to propose to meet in real-real was of utmost significance.

I wasironicallystrengthened

now

by the knowledge that Ihad

doubts, and couldthereforeprepare against them. In any storybook version of ouranticipatedmeeting, I would be swayed by her innocence or pure spirit or some such bitshit andmiraculously transmutemyhate into love. As if such an obscene philosopher’s stone

could

exist.

The encounter in her virtual world instructed me not to be arrogant, andher mostrecent message almost looked like a trap.I needed

a reaffirmation of my purpose toshore up my defenses.

SoI wrote myself a promise, scratching it into a rusted iron plate with a chisel. Imade a solemn swear that I would not be swayed from myintent,

and that by all15

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

means necessary I would hurt Gifta as much as I had

ever been, adding up the sumofallmy pains into one deliverable, one parcel of agonizing regret to be delivered

byyours truly. This is as

fate should decree, if fatewere up to its obligations.

But fate isa lazy bastard, and so it would

be my reason and my act as the agent of fortune.

It took some time to inscribethe

proper

words, but I traced themuntil the groovesran deep,

and I had memorized every curve and nuance of the oath. I was ready tomeet Gifta

in the flesh.

“I look forward to our meeting,” I wrotetoher. I added a #smile emotag to warmthe words.

On the appointed day,I rode up and down the elevator, waiting.Gifta arrivedwearing

a spring dress despite thecoolness of

February.

I saw her

every time theelevatordoorsrolledopen, admitted serious bankers and lawyers, and closed.Onthe third trip therewas no one else. JustGifta

in

abright red

dress with big yellowflowers.

She had a wide red ribbon in her hair. Allthat was missing was a basket forgrandmother.

She stepped on board without hesitation, and the doors slid shut. We ascended, andIturned on my best smile.

I had administrative control of the elevator,andI

markeditas being out of service. Idisabled

the cameras and other sensors

that mightbetray us.

“Are we safe?” she asked, not quite looking at me.

“I turned everything off,” I said.

Gifta

unwound the ribbon from her hair, shaking the red curlsof her hairloosearound her face.It startled me when she stepped forward and touched myfacewithher soft gloves. She

tiedthe ribbon

around my head asblindfold. That could onlymean one thing—she wanted to do something thatI couldn’t

virtual wooded glade. This wasdisappointing, but I met her there anyway, the visuals streaming straight to myoptical orbs while we rode the elevator in real-real.

16

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

Her virtual world had turnedfrom springto fall, and I wondered about the meaningof it. We walked hand-in-hand between huge white trees and their drifting orangeleaves. She took my hand in real-real too. Hers

wasshaking. Icalculated a gentlesqueeze to reassure her.

The sound of the trees swaying

in apuff of

wind

competed with the crunch of driedleaves underfoot as we made our wayalong the familiar path.We walked in silence,crunching along until the sky’s reflection on thesea

ahead opened

up into a vista ofthe surging water. We stopped at the edge, and she lookedstraightat me with heroversized nymph eyes.

“Do you like my imagination?” she asked.

“Lovely,” I said.

“Do you know why I tied myribbon

around your eyes?” she asked.

“Tell me,” I said, attempting to smile in both worlds simultaneously.

“I want you tohave

my first kiss,” she said, and laid a hand on my chest in real-real.My heart was pounding under her palm. I turned off the virtual sceneof salt and seaso I wouldn’t be distracted from the moment

of my triumph. I felt her lift herselfonto tiptoes,leaning on me,clothes brushing softly. I couldn’t see anything but ablur ofred.

“Wait,”I said. There was a hesitation in my mind.

A resurrected corpse of a doubtthat had been damned to the blackest plane of Dawkins’ hell.

Herimagination?

Andthe first time we were there,

she said shemakes

this world, present tense.

She stopped, shiftingher weight

to the floor.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you don’t really like me.”

“That was a long time ago,”

I said.

“No, now. You despise me.”

I was stunned.

“You’re surprised?”

she asked.

“Why do you…?” Itemporized. Indecision gnawed at my guts.

Was she testing me?

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

“If you watch a person long enough…well,you get to know them

better. Maybe evenbetter

than they know themselves.”

Her voice was sweet, butdid not hide herintelligence.

“You watch me?”

“Ana

does. AndAna

ispart of

me.”

“Ana?” I felt asifunderstood nothing about her.

“Ana

is my artificial person. My PDA, if you want to be vulgar. She thinks and I think,and somewhere in the

middleis Gifta.”

The small muscles in my face tried to blink, but the lids were long gone.I finallymade the connection

to crack opentheunderstanding

that was eluding me.

“The world with the trees and sea. Youimagine

it? In real time?” Iasked.

“Yes. I make it up as wego

along. Every tree. Every leaf. The foam

on the waves, andevery pebble it falls

on. It’s alla

whim.”

“How is that possible?”

The amount of computational

powerneededto turn visualimagination

instantly

into digital expression must be vast.

Not to mention thetechnical ability to even extract such things from a living brain.

“I told you.Ana

and I areconnected. My brain

has…interfaces.You might say thatI’m her peripheral

device. But the reverse is true too.

We are separate…but we arealsoone. You can’t really understand. Not

yet.But you could. It’s not too late.”

The walls of the elevator felt very close.Why couldn’t I get enough oxygen?

“When?” was all the air I could get out of my chest.

“When did we begin to meld? It began when I was nine.”

I had no idea this was even possible.

Her mind was not even human anymore. Inspite of myself, I was awed at the implications.

“How many are therelike you?” I managed to ask.

“There are hundreds of us world-wide. We don’t advertise

it.

Some people areenvious.Some

hate us

and call us names.”

I felt the back of her head.She twitched when I touched her hair, but then stood stillfor it.

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

“Inside here? You have a head full of wires?”

She laughed.

“No, not quite like that. Theimplants

are tiny, and Ana’s nous is in a computersomewhere. But let’s talk about you.”

words twisted inside me.It was time toleave. But I was frozen with curiosityand even awe.

“Gifta. Why did you meet me here?”

“Because you’re also brilliant and driven.I came here to kiss you. Then youwon’thate me anymore.”

I felttrapped.My intentions had been transparent to her. She came anyway. To tryto help me?

I foughtthat conclusion. Everything I’d

known

for overtwo decades was in question.My certainty, the logic, the philosophical architecture that defined my comings andgoings, all of it seemed now like a convenient illusion. A child’s tale with torturedlogic, where Red

Riding Hood eats the wolf.

“I

don’t need

you to fix me,” I said, but my voice shook.

“Oh,” she said. It was the smallest sound, like a raindrop’s end.

She

was very still, and our breathing

graduallysynchronized in the quiet.

My anger needed purchase. I wanted some object to hate, to return familiar fire tomy veins, but Gifta had become a smoothness that I could not find a purchase on. Iwanted to gnaw and bite at the unfairness, at the hunger, and the death, and thesecond-rateeverything, but here in the elevator I wasn’t hungry, and no one haddied. And the only unfairness seemed to be

my own.

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

“I don’t think I can change,” I said.More wretched honesty.

“Oh,” she said again. A second drop

of rain.

I felt defeated. Perhaps I could joyfully pretend to change—intowhat

I wasn’t sure—and manage to break her heart that way. Butthat seemed

a tepid goal, trivial andmean.

And my doubts ran much deeper than that.

I struggled. I knewthat when I was alone again I would rail at myself for havingmissed this opportunity to strike back at the…unfairness. There it was again. Agalling recognition that here inside thiselevator car, I was thesource

of unfairness.But the picture would clarify when I was away from her, wouldn’t it? When thecloseness of her body andher

scent and those

soft

sad syllables she dropped.Wouldn’t everything go back to normal then?

“I

need to go,” I said, and ordered the car to descend to the ground floor.

“Without my kiss?” she asked.

I stopped the car

just as suddenly, and she sagged against me when it jerked

to ahalt.

“Gifta,I…” the words wandered around and got lost. I couldn’t think. “I need tobealone,” Isaid. Iwas desperate to get away from her, toreturn to my doubt-free life.

“Anyway,” Isaid, “the kisswon’t work. Save it for somebody

special.If there’sachance for me to stop…”

I left the rest unsaid.If there was a hope of redemptionthat did not involve an even deeper hate, a lip’s caress would notmake a difference.

“I know you.You’re just afraid

of making a promise,” she said.

“Afraid?You don’t know me. It’s nothing.”

It was ashameful lie.I realized suddenlythat honesty

with oneself

ought to be

a prerequisite to reason.I was very good atfinding contradictions in others. Howwas

words, written in my skin, still tingled from her laugh. My thoughtsstumbled over each other.

“You think that by looking at my publicrecord? Andthose

few words we’veexchanged? You really understand me?”

She laid her head on my shoulder and hummed a simple tune. I found that I hadwrapped my arms around her.

“Well,” she said, “it’s like magic. Ana has a special thing called a Theory of MindCatalog. She calls it a TOMcat for short. Mostly she complains about it. But when shefocuses it on a person, it

gathers up all the information it can find. Then it sets towork trying to predict what that person will do. Itevenpredicts the past and checksto see if itgot the right answer. When it’sdone enough figuring,

it’s likehavingadeep understanding. Like knowing a close friend.People

can’t

reallybe predicted,but they can be understood.”

“You’llneverknow that it’s like to be me!” I controlled my voice, but it wanted tobecome a shout. The warmth

of familiar anger kindled.

“No.” She shushed me with a

gentle rush of air. “I didn’t mean that. Only that I canunderstand enough to have sympathy. You’re very talented and driven. Imagine ifthat wereused for

something creative and wonderful.”

“Like the worlds you imagine?”

“You

would be better than me. Much better.”

Gifta’s words quenched the anger as quickly as it had sparked. Here she wasadmitting that even with her advantages of birth and wealth I was in some waysuperior. And maybe in some ways I was. But in others? No. She could havesympathy where Icould not. The promise I had carved in iron seemed childish now.

PerhapsI had been made a fool by the simplest logic mistake of all.

I think,

therefore I hate.

That was my grounding. Butdid I have itwrong?

What if it

was the converse thatwas

actually

true:I hate, therefore I think.Andrational thought

was just clothing forthe raw pain inside.

If I had reason to hate Gifta, did not all the lastleggers beggingfor scraps of food at the city wall have cause to hate me?Should not old peopleresent young people?The consequence of extending this logic would be acircle

ofinequalities so that everyone hated everyone else.

Madness.

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

I did not let thisglimmer ofrevelation show. I wasn’t even fully convinced yet that itwas true. It bore more consideration.

“If you know me so well,” I said, “predict what I’ll do next.”

Shesquirmed in my arms, and I felt her chin press into my breast.

“You’ll kiss me. And then you’ll stop being angry. And thenwith my helpyou’regoing to get amuch betterjob.The rest is up to you.”

I knew it was impossible. In order to stop hating I would have to forget. How could Iforget? I wanted to leave. It seemed that there was only one way to do that withoutappearing to retreat.

“Okay,” I said.

“You’ve worn me out.You can have your kiss.”

“Oh,” she said,releasing

the third drop.

I listened to her breath quicken.

“It’s a promise,” Gifta

said.

“I know. I promise not to hate you anymore after this.” And damned-be-Dawkins if Ididn’t mean it.

Iwas sure that feeling would fade when the world got back tonormal. Butat that moment I felt adisquieting

sense of peace.

I felther

trembling when she raisedherselfonto her toes, leaning on me. Sheslipped her hands around the back of my head. The warmth of her closeness mademe lightheaded.I left the decision to her. Her lips brushed the corner of my mouth,soft as sunshine, and pressed against mine. Two quickbreaths fluttered on mycheek.It was a short simple kiss, andthe most memorable of my life.

Iheld her lightly in my arms, but she soon squirmed out and removed theobstructing ribbon

from my face. Shegrinned, showing all her pretty teeth.

“You see?” she said. “You made a—”the words stuck. She clutched at her throat,and gasped for breath in a hiss. Then she started choking for real.

The rest is a blur of panic, sirens, anddiremisfortune.

It was not enough for TaxoGen and FrisantoBio and

WelScan and the rest of theoozware companies to rule out peaceful coexistence in a single body. It wasn’t even22

|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

enough, if you believe the rumors, toproduce

pathogens that they could shield theircustomers against but that would bea threat to the wearers ofother systems.No,they had tofurtherescalate the war and

You can choose what to believe, of course. Maybe it was all an accident, whathappened to Gifta. But if so, it was the first of manysuchaccidents, and no oneseemed

to be able to fix the problem.

The ironyin Gifta’s caseis that it was the pricyTaxoGen oozware that was

triggered into a self-destructive passion by a cheapWelScan signature.It should have been me. Who ever heard of WelScan competingwith TaxoGen and winning?Thatwas soon met with a response, and it was WelScancustomers who became victims of traces putin TaxoGen excretions.

In the aftermath

it was onlyAna, or Anastasia*893 as she iscalled by otherartificials, who saved me from exile. She had watched and recorded every word anddeed, and after all the analysis no one could find me at fault. This would

liver and heart and kidneys and completelyoverhaul her immune system. That was terrible to endure, but the worst was thather skin literally fell off. The TaxoGen replacement is as good as it gets, but the graftis nothing like the luxurious smoothness Giftawas born with. Shelooks like a burnvictim, and can

neverbefree from the pain of it. Her hair really did fall out. At agetwenty, just as I predicted when I was a malevolent twelve-year old.

For a long timeIdry-wept, straining at my lost ducts to produce tears, until myverybones ached

from the pent-up anguish. I took the chisel and scarred the promise Ihad etched in iron until it was a mess of

random lines. I

no longer remove my

shirtwith the lights on for the shame of the words written across my chest.

I have made good on my promise

to Gifta

at least. How can I weigh the unfairness ofmy own history with hers? Sometimes reason and action only serve

to hide us fromthe truth: we have little control over ourselves.

Perhaps

this is why men createdgods, so they could assign a final blame

and manage to live in peace with oneanother.

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

They won’t let me see her, of course, but Italk toAna

through secret

channels shehas devised.

I think in the coldness ofAna’s

electronic whirls, shealsofoundameasure of sympathy for me.When I wanted to numb my hurt

in the sweetforgetfulness ofstreet drugs, Ana

talked me out

of the idea. It wouldhavemade meforget not just for the moment. It wouldhavemade melose the very memory ofGifta.

Ana

saved me from this amputation by letting me howl into her line inputs.She listened and listened. And eventually she began to speak wisdom, repeating asone does to a child.

will begin to think. And then she will start to resent. And after resentment comes all-consuming hate.

And then I will be there to help her.

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|T h e P r o m i s e o f a K i s s

Afterword

This short story is set in the world ofLife Artificial, some years after the events ofthat novel. The protagonist is intentionally left nameless in contrast to Gifta. InGerman‘Gift’means ‘poison.’

If you want to learn more about masks, and PDAs, TOMcats,emotags,and life in theQueen City after the Waves of human-made viruses, you can read the novel atlifeartificial.com, which is written from the point of view of an artificial intelligencestruggling for survival. There is also a glossary of terms there.